Last week I literally got back in the saddle, the saddle of my bike that is. Just a short pedal to the mailboxes at the end of the road, it was exhilarating nonetheless. It had been about ten months since I stalwartly climbed into the seat of a bike, and regardless of my misgivings, it was just like riding a bike.
This is quite unlike changing diapers. Now that my son, Liam, is over a month old, he is filling diapers like a champ and I've been changing them like it was my job. Before he arrived, I hadn't changed a diaper since I was a babysitter eighteen years ago. The idea of diapering was not a daunting concept, just a foreign one. I thought, “How bad could it be, really?”
It was bad.
The propensity of pee and poop that comes out of my child is nothing short of monumental. How such a small, sweet boy could produce such a foul and heavy diaper is beyond understanding. Additionally, I had little clue as to the amount of fluids that would make their way outside of the confines of his diaper. In the movies you see little boys streaming out geysers of urine; it happily splashing all over them. I thought that this was a dramatization.
It was not.
My son is a pee fountain. He christened both Josh and I on his first night home. If you're not in there with a wipe the moment the diaper is lifted and the cool air wafts against his body, he will pee on you, or more likely himself, dousing his face with its gummy smile. Then, from nowhere, he'll gaseously launch poo all over the changing table and secretly onto the only dress that fits me right now. About an hour after this happened, while getting into the car bound for the grocery store, I looked down only to discover my son's deposit. Gross.
While learning the art of diapering has been quite the enterprise, I know that one day this too will be routine. And while my ride to the mailbox was seemingly unadventurous, it was one step towards finding my way back to normalcy. That is if normalcy is ducking streams of baby pee.